


A Win-Win Situation

by vorkosigan



Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Bottom Luke, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Light Dom/sub, Luke Tops from the Bottom, M/M, Pre-Canon, Rough Sex, Topping from the Bottom, but not really, the lightest, top merle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 08:43:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13291263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vorkosigan/pseuds/vorkosigan
Summary: "When we both made the Olympic finals something broke. We started slapping each other on the back and laughing, and we went out and had dinner and sat up all night talking and he said he didn't give a shit about the Olympics and I said I didn't either. " (FromTrumps of Doom)Merle and Luke go to dinner; things escalate.





	A Win-Win Situation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hamsterwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamsterwoman/gifts).



> Written as a part of the Fandom Stocking 2017 event.

I do not know when exactly I realized I wanted him. It almost feels like I slipped straight from wanting to break his teeth into kissing him, pressing against him, pinning his wrists to the wall (he let me). Still, strictly speaking, with us, one never exactly excluded the other.

Perhaps it was the moment we both got into the Olympics finals, and we looked into each other's eyes, and realized it; I grabbed his biceps and squeezed – I normally have more control than that, but I was pumped full of adrenaline; and he laughed out. The next moment we were slapping each other on the back, soaked with sweat, and we almost hugged, but I pulled back. It's not exactly unusual for athletes to get a hard-on out of sheer excitement, but still; it could get awkward.

“We should have dinner,“ he panted. Sweat was coursing down his face, his red hair was plastered to his head, and at that moment he seemed so full of sheer life that I couldn't look away. Still, I laughed out. Dinner? Us? He must be joking.

“What?“, he said. “You're buying, obviously. I never say no to a free meal.“

“I'm not buying you dinner, Reynard,“ I said. I never even noticed how open his face had been, how happy, until it closed up. “Of course,“ I added quickly, “in case you decide to pay for the meal, I'm game.“

I saw tension go out of him, at least in part. He grinned, but there was something sharp about it now, more like the old Luke Reynard I knew and hated. Okay, so maybe not hated exactly. Something in that vein.

“Let's figure it out along the way,“ he said. And then: „Bet I can convince you it should be your treat. You're the one who won the race, after all.“

“No way you can convince me of that,“ I said automatically. “But fine. Try.“ As I was saying the words, the realization hit me: I won. I should be jumping up and down, I should be running round the track, blowing kisses to the masses, whatever. The thing is, I'm normally a pretty lazy person. And I never could understand why you would want to run yet another round, after the feat you just preformed.

Instead, I just stood there, grinning into Luke's eyes, still clutching his upper arm as if breaking contact would break something else too, and I didn't want it broken, I liked it the way it was just then.

The second realization was: I didn't give a damn I won. Somehow, it didn't matter.

***

Why, of course it wasn’t a date. Just two athletes celebrating the fact they got into a finals together. So, perhaps we sneaked out so that we wouldn’t have to celebrate with the coaches and their assistants and everyone else. Most of them decent guys, mind you, but somehow, by tacit agreement, we slipped out of the hotel together, and got to the metro and found a restaurant that was touristy enough so that we wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable, but still not overrun by people who were likely to recognize either of us. That part of Moscow was grayer, more run down than the dolled-up city center, but we didn’t notice.

We sat down and ordered. I opened my mouth to say something hyper-smug, closed it. Realized I had no desire whatsoever to rub his nose in my victory. Which was weird. I’d gotten this far solely to show him up, prove I was better than him, and then, somewhere along the way, I’d realized I wasn’t. Neither was he. It was a thin, ever-shifting line. It could have been him just as easily. And somehow I was perfectly all right with that.

“Merle Corey,” he said in wonder, almost to himself. I smiled at him. I couldn’t remember if I ever did before, but somehow I felt content just to be there. “What?” he said.

I shrugged. Suddenly, at a loss for words. Suddenly realizing we were supposed to talk, and I had no idea what about. We never did before, not really. So I blurted the thing that was coursing through my mind. “You could have won just as easily.”

“Uh-uh, man. You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“The pity acknowledgement.”

I laughed out. “The pity acknowledgement?” I said in disbelief. “It was a photo finish. Half an inch and it would have been you.”

He looked pensive. “You know,” he observed after a moment, “I almost think I should feel some resentment, but somehow I don’t give a shit.”

Luke is big and red-haired, and at the time he didn’t wear a beard, just a sorry excuse for a mustache. His eyes are green, and when he’s not trying to be sly, they can be unusually pretty. He gave me one of his rare, open looks right then, and I think my throat tightened a little bit, although I didn’t know why. “Why don’t I give a shit, Corey?”

I shrugged again. “Merle,” I said.

“Nonono,” he replied. “You always get that one wrong. You’re Merle. I’m...”

“Irritating,” I cut in, and it was a lie. “But not as much as you usually are.”

“Watch it, it might go to my head.” He smirked. “You want – what, to go over to the first name basis? Really? You do realize you’d have to call me Luke in turn?”

I remember I rolled it in my head then, tasting it in my mind, testing it. And I remembered how much I'd hated him in the beginning, how much he could get to me with just two or three cutting remarks, and how ridiculous and benign it all seemed in retrospect. “I think I’ll live,” I said dryly. And then, more earnestly, because it wanted saying: “Look, I... I don’t give a shit either. I mean, I’m glad we both got into the finale and all that, but...” I struggled to find words.

“By this point, it’s pretty clear it’s going to be either you or me. The others aren’t really even close.” He swirled the whine in his glass. It was red, and imported, and more or less drinkable.

“And I don’t particularly want to know which one of us,” I said, suddenly realizing it was true.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “because at this point it’s pretty much circumstantial.”

“It’s weird,” I said, by way of confirmation.

He grinned at me. “I just wanted to prove I was better than you.”

“And now you don’t?”

“And now I don’t.” He paused. “We’re both good enough. As for the Olympics, I don’t really give a fuck, honestly.

“Yeah, nether do I,” I said. “I think I never did.”

***

We skirted around the edges of innuendo all evening, and the looks we exchanged were getting longer. Still, on Shadow Earth, during that decade – which was the 80s, with the new conservatives coming back with the vengeance in the U. S. – I couldn't be sure if I was reading him right. There has been some hints even before that, I thought, but I couldn't be certain if Luke was actually bi or not; or know if he was aware of it, ready to acknowledge it, whatever.

I realized, with some wonderment, that I actually didn't want to spoil this. So, I decided to lie low and let him call the shots if he wanted to, which is my preferred method anyway. Besides, I was fine with being friends. Friendly. Friendly-ish. Whatever this was.

What changed my mind was a look he gave me.

The food was long gone and we were arm-wrestling. The loser was going to foot the bill, which, in the subsequent years, became our favorite method. We were staring into each other's eyes, straining. I thought it was going to be a draw, as was usually the case with us in most things, but for a moment I noticed his attention slip and I pressed my advantage.

What I also pressed was his hand. Towards the tabletop. Once you are past that half-way point, you gain leverage and it becomes considerably easier. He shot me a look I couldn't read as I pushed down; that's not the look I mentioned earlier.

I felt his arm give way abruptly and I slammed it into the table so hard it reverberated through the restaurant. I'm sure heads were turning our way, but I wasn't thinking about that right then. I was just staring into our interlaced fists and panting. Luke's always been a strong guy, even for an Amberite. Still, I could hear his hard breathing from across the table.

Then I realized I was still clutching his hand in mine, still holding it firmly down, immobilized. And he wasn't trying to pull it out. I looked up. He met my gaze. Then he glanced down, at our hands, mine still holding his down. Then back up at me, his eyes lovely and blown very wide.

I mean, I know arousal when I see it.

Coming back to our senses, we disentangled quickly. Still, there were no attempts to cover it up with conversation. We just stared at each other. He tried for a smirk, gave up.

"Wanna go back to the hotel?" I asked.

"Oh, yes."

***

As soon as the door of his room closed behind us, I pushed him against the wall, pressing a hot, rough kiss on his lips. I expected him to push me away – not because he wanted me away, necessarily, but because I thought this would turn into another wrestling match sooner rather than later. Who will end up on top, who will dominate the other and all that jazz. But no, he was holding very still, plastered against the wall.

I backed away half a step to give him some space and waited. He opened his eyes.

"Luke?"

"Oh, come on, baby, you can do better than that," he murmured at me. He looked at me under lowered eyelids, and the smirk he directed at me was that of pure, undistilled challenge.

This time I was less careful. I shoved him back, grinding my groin into his, pushing my tongue into his mouth. He grabbed at my hip, but I dislodged his hand from there and, holding it by the wrist, slammed it against the wall next to his head. He gasped and humped against me, rubbing his erection against mine. Remembering the incident in the restaurant, I decided he had a thing for wrist-grabbing. I took a hold of the other one as well, and gripping both in one hand, held them tightly above his head. It made him happy enough, it seemed – me pinning him, kissing his mouth and his neck, squeezing him through his pants and generally being handsy, him squirming and winded and letting me do whatever I wanted. I tangled my fingers in his hair and tugged; his hips jerked convulsively into mine and he whispered an obscenity, and then: "Yeah, yeah, that's good."

We were at it for some time, and when we came up for air, he cheerfully said: "Aren't you going to push me to my knees and have your way with me? Or something in that vein?"

"Maybe later."

Still kissing him, I started navigating us towards the bed, but: "Floor," he said instead. "Come on, Merle, be a little creative."

I was quite happy to comply, and he even happier when I prodded him onto hands and knees.

My hand spent a considerable amount of time down his pants, and then, after the other necessary preparations of a slightly more penetrative nature, we were ready to get on with it. I'd lost my pants somewhere along the way; his were still tangled around his knees. On all fours on the carpet, outlined in the dark (we never bothered to turn the lights on), he was awakening in me certain possessive feelings that I'm generally to lazy to bother with. But this... I could live with this.

I bent down and bit him on the shoulder.

Then, rubbered up and lubed, I was in him, and, "Merle, you don't need to be so gentle," he informed me. We were solidly on the first name basis by then; otherwise it might have been weird.

I grunted acknowledgment, although I absolutely intended to be gentle, at least in the beginning.

Still: "Hands behind the head," I told him, because I thought a more uncomfortable position would make him happy. I accompanied the words with a push down between his shoulderblades. I was reading him right, it turned out. He tossed a devilish grin over his shoulder as his chest thudded against the floor, his cheek pressed into the carpet.

I fucked him slowly to start with, then upped the pace a bit, and then some more when he started squirming and pushing back enthusiastically. My hands were all over him, I couldn't get enough of skin. I squeezed and stroked, and I pinched where it was appropriate.

"Dammit, Merle," he whispered hoarsely. "Put your hand over my mouth. Tell me to take it."

I did press my palm against his lips then, and felt him shudder in response. "Shut up already," I did my best to growl, although I don't think it sounded particularly convincing. I dragged my fingers through his hair until they snagged, then gripped and tugged firmly enough to actually pull his head back.

He fucked back onto me. Hard. Then he started coming.

While he was still at it, I used both my hands to pin his shoulders down and plunged into him a few times, erratically. By that time I was pretty far gone myself; I whispered an obscenity and was done. Then I collapsed onto the rug beside him, staring at the ceiling, breathing hard.

"So," I said, as he rolled onto his back; our shoulders were pressed together tightly, and it felt unexpectedly nice. "Who wins this round?"

"That's easy." He threw a foot over my ankle and left it there. This also was nice. "I finished first. Ask the judges what that means."

I laughed out. "You mean, if I'd come first, it would have counted as a win?"

"Hardly. That's a jerk thing to do when you're on top, unless you really can't hold out. And in either case, you lose."

"Well," I said with a mock-sigh. "No one ever claimed the game wasn't rigged, I guess."

We stayed awake until dawn and found out we had many things to talk about. I still fondly remember the pattern of that carpet in Moscow and the exact arrangement of the cracks in the ceiling.


End file.
